The Liminal Space of Letting Go

It’s sunny outside. I’m looking forward to spring and witnessing life return to the city.

It’s a strange thing, not going to work on a Monday. There's no urgency, no meetings, no low-level panic humming in the background. It’s quiet. The kind of quiet that almost feels suspicious at first. But what I’m realizing is that stress had been squatting in my mind for so long that I forgot what it was like to think without it.

There’s something quietly astonishing about what’s left when all the noise fades. No Slack pings, no performance metrics, no pressure to squeeze meaning out of every moment. It is kind of wonderful being in this liminal space - not where I was, not yet where I’ll be. Everything feels a little exposed, a little vulnerable but also clearer.

After sitting with my thoughts for a bit, I recognize that beneath the exhaustion, there’s a sense of hope. A small, steady sense that there’s something worth rebuilding. Not to climb, not to win— but to reconnect with myself.

I know this period won’t last forever. Soon enough, I’ll return to the rhythm of work and obligation. But I hope, when I do, I return with something I didn’t have before. Not just rest, but clarity. Not just the energy to keep going, but the wisdom to know why. A way to carry the stillness of this moment into the noise of the next.